this is how an angel dies
by turtlevenom
Summary: This is a gift for the Quinntana fic exchange. The prompt was: Quinntana in a zombie apocalypse. Warning for character death, violence and eventual sexual content.
1. Chapter 1

_June 30, 2015_

_These past few days have been very eventful. Visiting an old classmate from my time at Oxford devolved into us behaving like rowdy undergraduates. Nearly a week was spent carousing and drinking like much younger men. Tonight, my final night in the country, he took me to London's newest steakhouse and personally ensured that I consumed the better part of a cow. Leaving my packing until the last moment was probably not the wisest idea. I have a car to take me to Heathrow in about seven hours and I seem to have misplaced my passport. If I miss this flight, I'm sure I'll never hear the end of it._

_-From the personal journal of Dr. Lee Phillips, Ph.D._

* * *

Quinn sets down her pen and flexes her fingers. For some reason she decided to take all of her lab notes by hand and now regrets it. Sometimes she almost regrets taking this job period. It's not that it's boring; it just isn't as exciting as she expected. When Dr. Phillips approached her to come for this project, he promised groundbreaking research to finally come up with an antiprotozoal agent to combat the deadly _Trypanosoma brucei_, a parasite that kills upwards of 80,000 people per year. Eager to make a difference, Quinn enthusiastically signed on but several months later she admits it just isn't what she expected. She's sure _someone_ is doing groundbreaking research. It just isn't her. Instead, Quinn washes beakers and mixes solvents and has recently upgraded to taking care of the lemurs the lab keeps as test subjects. They were cute at first but grew consistently less adorable the more she has to clean up their droppings. It's also depressing knowing that they're likely going to die. She really wishes they hadn't been named.

It's not that Quinn doesn't enjoy her job. In campaigning for the only undergraduate position on the research team, she exhibited a persistence bordering on obsession. But she hasn't been low man on the totem pole in a while. As a freshman at both Yale and McKinley she easily took control and got out of ever really "paying her dues." It turns out though; a well-placed glare will only accomplish so much when you're the only one in the room without at least a master's degree. At least they don't send her out for coffee anymore.

Looking at the clock, Quinn realizes that she's stayed much later than she was supposed to. She needs to get home and finish the work for her actual degree; a senior thesis on prion and neurodegenerative diseases. Sure, Dr. Phillips is her advisor and knows just how many hours she works in _his_ lab but there's no way he'll cut her any slack. Just last week, he'd kicked someone out for turning in an assignment at 12:01 rather than 11:59. That unfortunate student has to either find another advisor in the middle of the semester or complete his thesis next fall. It was a terrible thing to watch. Quinn likes to think she wouldn't have burst into tears, but she understands his pain.

It takes less than twenty minutes to trek back to her campus apartment. (Off campus housing in New Haven isn't something her mother is willing to permit) Quinn drops her bags in her room and sticks her head into the common area to offer a perfunctory greeting to her roommate. (The cost for a single dorm isn't something her father is willing to subsidize)

Before getting to work, she checks the few social media sites she remembers the passwords to. It's just a bunch of information about classmates she doesn't really know or care about and "real" friends she hasn't seen in years. She doesn't know how she got so out of touch but after that first year, she went back to Lima less and less. Sophomore year, Judy saved enough money to spend the holidays in Connecticut. She was so excited to come to Yale that Quinn just nodded and made the arrangements. That summer was the first she filled with summer classes and internships. Judy continues visiting, never ceasing to be impressed with the architecture on campus or "that nice boy" Quinn brought to brunch. Quinn doesn't have the heart to tell her it's actually a different boy each time, they're just all kind of interchangeable. She just smooths it over when her mother confuses them by embracing them like old friends.

Satisfied that she's caught up with who'd slept with whom over Fall Break, she closes out of the Internet and gets to work. She types until her roommate barges in and begs her to come to the campus she's going to have to deal with a drunken roommate tonight one way or another, Quinn changes into jeans, curls her hair and lets herself be pulled along.

The next morning, Quinn _does not_ have a hangover; she's just tired. She absolutely intended to drink that last shot and it isn't an accident that she slept on the rug in her bedroom. It's plush and comfortable. What she doesn't intend for is to wake up with only twenty minutes until her thesis meeting. Hurriedly changing her shirt and rinsing her mouth, she flies out of the apartment, yanking her hair into a ponytail as she sprints down the stairs. Making it to the office with two minutes to spare, Quinn wipes her forehead and takes several calming breaths. She's a far cry from the well-collected woman usually seen frequenting the department. Luckily, Dr. Phillips is the epitome of an absent-minded professor, she could show up naked and he'd be unlikely to notice.

Knocking briefly on the door before pushing it open, Quinn slides into the spacious office. It's the second largest in the department and attests to the fact Dr. Phillips would be department head of he weren't so focused on his research.

"Dr. Phillips? Sorry, I'm late. It was a rough morning."

He's sitting at his desk staring straight ahead, hands clasping the arms of his chair. Quinn steps closer, taking in his clouded eyes and the bluish tint of his skin. Her advisor looks like she feels.

"Are you feeling well, sir?"

It's as if someone switches on a light or a puppeteer yanks the strings. Dr. Phillips' head snaps in her direction. He isn't looking at her per se but Quinn guesses she has his attention. Something's off with him and she hopes it means he won't spend the hour grilling her on the more intricate parts of her research. She just wants to eat something and go to sleep.

"Sit down, Quinn"

She sits.

"I've been reviewing your work and I've found," he trails off looking at the file in his hands. "It is exceptional. You may be one of the brightest students I've ever taught. This paper is brilliant and I can confidently say that I wouldn't change a thing."

Quinn feels her mouth drop open. Not once in the entire time she's known him has Dr. Phillips given such lavish praise to anyone. One of his older students was awarded the prestigious Ellsworth Memorial Prize and he'd merely said, "Well done." His own son had been accepted to Cal Tech on a full scholarship and she'd heard him on the phone when he'd said, "that'll do". Now she knows something is up, but it's not like she can question him for complimenting her. She nods her head and thanks him, just wanting to get this bizarre encounter over with. She has a date with an IHOP.

They talk for another 47 minutes and 15 seconds exactly, ending the meeting promptly after one hour. This also strikes Quinn as odd since Dr. Phillips tends to both ramble and exhibit a complete and utter disregard for keeping time if it's unrelated to deadlines for student submissions. Still, she's too eager to leave to really question it. His window faces out into the courtyard and while usually a nice view, the early afternoon sun is coming in at an angle specifically designed to make her blind. Her head aches from squinting and talking and thinking.

She's at the door when he calls out, his voice, urgent and ragged.

"Quinn." She expects to be reprimanded for something but once again he looks straight through her before shaking his head. He's sweating now and she's partially concerned that he's going senile. That would not work well when she asks him for a grad school recommendation.

She's standing awkwardly in the doorway waiting for him to speak, but he doesn't say anything. "Yes, sir?" she prompts.

He's turned to the window and when he looks back, he seems shocked to see her.

"Quinn, why are you still here?"

She gapes at him. _Really?_ She doesn't have time for this today.

* * *

There is enough time to head back home and shower before she needs to head into the lab. Her hours are long on the days she works, but that gives her most of the week off. Today is pretty light. On Thursdays, she conducts checkups on all the test subjects. Which really just amounts to weighing them and then playing with them for a few hours. Today however, something is off. The lemurs are generally agreeable, especially with each other since they've been raised together since birth. A handful is even from the same litter. There's always some level of posturing and aggressiveness from a few of the larger males but this is pure chaos. A gang of about four has cornered another and is essentially beating it to death. Others just sit there glassy eyed and unmoving. All are showing the kind of jerky movements that is at odds with the natural grace of the species.

Someone has gone very wrong with the last experiment. Quinn immediately leaves to notify Dr. Phillips, but instead runs into Mark, an older post-doc working at the lab in the hopes of earning a permanent position with the university. He arrived about a half an hour earlier and can't reach the doctor, but he suspects the lemurs' erratic behavior is a result of a new version of the vaccine prototype administered ahead of schedule. Nothing is in the lab records, but the access panel logged Dr. Phillips accessing both the holding cages and the supply room the previous evening so it's was the best explanation.

"Do you think he just forgot to tell us?" Quinn asks. She wouldn't put it past him.

"Maybe. He's been a bit off lately don't you think?"

Quinn shrugs. She does think so, but it isn't really her place to criticize her superior's superior.

"There isn't much you can do right now." Mark pulls a few bills from his wallet. "Can you just go grab lunch while I try to get them to calm down?"

Quinn comes back with several orders of Chinese. Mark always wants Chinese. The office is pretty quiet and the bags are heavy so she sets them down on the conference room table and goes to look for her coworkers. She can hear Mark's voice. It's raised and aggressive, but she can't tell who's with him. She cracks the door open and sees the Dr. Phillips facing away from her. Due to the odd angle of the room layout, they can't really see her. From what she can hear, Mark is furious, but Dr. Phillips isn't really paying attention.

"This is illegal. The project could lose funding; the lab itself could be closed down."

"I…know. There just wasn't time."

"It doesn't matter. I have to report this you know."

"No." That one syllable, in Dr. Phillips gravelly voice is chilling.

"I _have_ to. We're breaking about five different HIPAA regulations.

_No._

There's a scuffle and Mark screams. Pushing open the door, she sees Dr. Phillips with his hands around Mark's neck. Mark is scratching and kicking but he's never been the most athletic of guys and it's pretty useless. Quinn is frozen in shock and doesn't snap out of it until Dr. Phillips clamps his teeth around the forearm Mark is using to push him away. The spurt of blood is what drives her into action. She jumps on his back raking her nails down the sides of his face and neck. He barely flinches before swiping his arm back and knocking her into his desk. Quinn searches for some kind of weapon and sees only the gilt edged letter opener Dr. Phillips got as a gift when he got tenured. Mark's face is turning a little pale and he's stopped struggling and she has maybe seconds to do something, so she plunges the letter opener deep into Dr. Phillips' shoulder. Like her previous attack, it doesn't seem to faze him.

"Quinn." Mark chokes out. "You can't fight him, get the police"

She gets out of the building and calls 911. Yale campus police are on the scene in about ninety seconds and the actual police show up not much later. Crime is taken pretty seriously on campus; she knows the response time in New Haven proper would have been much longer. Never before has she been so grateful for such outright privilege disparity. She gives her statement to the police once at the scene and twice more down at the station. It's late when the detective in charge informs her that not only did they not find Mark or Dr. Phillips, but also there's no evidence of any attack. The real blow comes when he starts lecturing her on practical jokes and the possible charges she could face.

"I don't understand. Mark should be there. He was bleeding everywhere."

"The lab was so immaculate that you could eat off the floor."

"But," she starts not sure who thought this line of questioning would be funny, "I saw –"

"Look Ms. Fabray. We know how it is. We looked at your record. Sub-matriculating into the neuroscience program at one of the toughest universities in the country and doing it largely on scholarships and financial aid. Sometimes the stress gets to you. We've seen kids with a lot less on their plate think up much wilder stories."

"You think I would make something like this up?"

"What I can tell you. Is that there was no evidence of anything out the usual and that we finally got in touch with Mark Lucas thirty minutes ago and he said he left early because he was coming down with a bug. This was at 4 pm."

That wasn't possible. Quinn recorded the anomalies with the test subjects at 3:45. Mark had definitely been struggling against a chokehold about an hour after that. Quinn wondered in the past whether she was going insane but that was largely based on having feelings she knew she shouldn't, like her sometimes intense desire to light Puck's mohawk on fire. Never before has she seen something that's literally not there. Sure, she's under a lot of pressure with graduation approaching but this is ridiculous.

"I need to speak to Mark. " she's sure if there is an explanation for this he'll have it.

"Quinn. Go home. Get a good night's sleep. If you have any more concern's. Here's my card."

She knows when she's being told to sit down and shut up, even when it's done politely. So she does what a good girl like Quinn Fabray would do. She sits down and shuts up and nods gratefully when the detective announces she'll be let off with just a verbal warning. Then she immediately catches a cab back to campus. She's not going to believe she made that up until she confirms it with her own eyes. Quinn rolls her eyes at the irony.

She doesn't know what she's expecting to find when she swipes into the lab, but Mark sitting alone at his workstation isn't one of them. He looks like he's reading something on a monitor but when she gets closer she sees that the screen is blank. She taps him on the shoulder thinking he might be in shock from what happened earlier. He doesn't move. Beads of sweat have gathered on the back of his neck and when she lightly touches his arm, he's burning up. She's bringing her hand back to wipe it on her jeans when he grabs her. He struggles to speak, to connect the words. He turns fully towards her and half his face is gone. A large patch of skin running from his cheekbone to his jaw is partially severed and is hanging awkwardly against his neck. The bite Quinn saw him receive less than five hours ago has turned a sickly color and is still dripping a thin line of blood down to his wrist. In her fright she stumbles backwards but his grip is strong.

"What what's going on? What happened to you?"

"Quinn. Phillips…messed up."

"Relax. I'll call an ambulance. Everything will be fine."

"No. Take this and go. Far."

Quinn shakes her head. She left him once and he'd gotten his face ripped off.

Mark squeezes her wrist so hard she thinks she hears something crack. "He'll be back. There's… " He can't focus long enough to finish a sentence but she can't break out of his hold so she just tries to follow along.

"Who? Dr. Phillips? I'll call the cops."

"Shut up, Quinn. Go. Manhattan."

His voice wavers a bit and a gurgling in his throat results in a fair about of blood trickling out of his mouth. He presses something into her pocket before he drags her to the door and shoves her out. Over his shoulder, a dark figure approaches. The shuffling steps echo along the tiles. Mark, looking more lucid than he has in the last ten minutes, tenses up and closes the door in her face. He bolts it and frantically gestures for her to go. She sees the pistol in his good hand just as he turns around. She's halfway to the stairwell when she hears three rounds fired in quick succession.

She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a vial of blood. Scrawled on a bloody scrap of paper is a place and a name. _Dr. S Ahmed. Manhattan_.

Quinn makes it back to her room in record time. Everything is in its place; her bed neatly made, books meticulously organized. It looks right. But nothing is _right_ at the moment. Quinn can't stay here. Glancing around the room to keep from crying, an action that once started might never stop, her eyes light on the only thing besides class reminders pinned to her corkboard. It's her current Metro-North pass pinned under a series of Metro-North passes starting with the one she bought in the spring of 2012. None of them have ever been used, but buying them made her felt like she was at least trying so she'd gotten into the habit. Once Kurt and Santana joined Rachel in New York, she'd felt like less of an awful friend knowing she _could _visit them. The passes steadily turned into a symbol of all of her good intentions. Now, they're a plan and something to focus on. Quinn can do plans.

There's surely a reason why she finds herself on Santana's doorstep and not Rachel's, but Quinn doesn't know what it is. According to Google Maps, Rachel's apartment is easier to get to from Grand Central and Rachel is 100 percent more likely to believe her story and help her find whomever this Dr. Ahmed is. But when Brittany finally texts her the address after several circuitous riddles to prove that she is in fact, Quinn Fabray, that's where she goes. She's done a lot of waiting in doorways today and none of those times has ended particularly well, so she doesn't know why she expects this to be different. Sneaking past the outer door when a drunk resident stumbles back in, she raps firmly on Santana's door and hopes someone is home. There's shuffling on the other side. The door opens and she sees Santana for the first time in over two years. The sweats and the glasses indicate that this is a night in, as does the TV blaring in the background. There isn't a chance to indulge in curiosity because Santana hasn't said a word and there usually isn't ever a time when Santana doesn't have a few choice words, especially for her.

"Fabray." Her voice is sleepy but other than that completely detached.

"Hi, Santana"

The look Santana gives her is worse than any glare. Her face pulls into a kind of half frown, half squint before it smooths out to become just as emotionless as her voice.

"Fuck. Off."

The door slams in her face and somehow Santana being a bitch is the most comforting part of her day.


	2. Chapter 2

_July 1, 2015_

_The combination of overindulgence and jet lag are taking more out of me than usual. My flight was delayed, it took over an hour to clear customs and by the time I got to the hotel, I'd been traveling for over 24 hours. My head has been aching since boarding and I found myself unable to get even the slightest amount of sleep on the plane. I'm putting that down as the reason I almost took the flight attendant's head off when she spilled a drink in my lap. I just want to eat something and manage to keep it down and then sleep for a full eight hours._

_-From the personal journal of Dr. Lee Phillips Ph.D._

* * *

The door reopens before she can raise her hand to knock again.

"Are you dying?"

Quinn wonders how bad she must look for that to even be a legitimate question. She shakes her head no and Santana steps back from the door and gestures her in with a jerk of her head. The TV is off and the only light is coming from the hall fixture. Santana glances back over her shoulder as she leaves the room.

"You can sleep on the couch. Or not. I don't really care. It's too late to deal with anything right now."

Quinn nods. She's tired and sleeping seems like a great idea. Not only is she doubtful Santana will believe her but also there's no way she'll be able to explain in any coherent fashion right now. Santana reaches into the hall closet and tosses a pillow and a blanket haphazardly in the direction of the couch.

"We'll deal in the morning. If you manage not to just disappear."

* * *

The next morning she opens her eyes to Santana looming over her. She's perched on the coffee table clearly waiting for Quinn to wake up. The light coming through the windows is still faint so it must be pretty early. She wonders how long Santana's been sitting there.

"Speak."

Quinn forgot how snappy Santana can be. Resisting the urge to respond to rudeness in kind, she sits up, pushes her hair out of her face and tells the truth.

"I think I'm in trouble."

"No shit. Tell me something I don't know." The venom in her voice is the first clue that something's wrong. Santana isn't just aloof anymore. She's angry.

"What do you mean?"

Rolling one's eyes that hard should physically be painful. Possibly as painful as the force with which Santana slaps the newspaper onto Quinn's lap.

"I knew there'd be a day when you finally went psycho bitch. I just didn't think you'd take me down with you. "

The headline reads "_Prominent professor found shot in lab."_ It catalogues the Dr. Phillips' gunshot wounds, the other signs of foul play, and that the police are currently looking for his lab assistants as persons of interest. Namely, Quinn and Mark. This was bad.

"Now, do you want to explain what the fuck you did and more importantly why the fuck you're _here_?"

There's a feeling you get when you stand up too fast and it feels like the floor is moving. Quinn experiences that magnified several times. She keeps trying to focus on the words printed on the page but the folded newspaper is shaking wildly in her hands. She tightens her grip, her clammy hands wrinkling it even further. Even though she's no longer really reading, everything has narrowed down to those tiny black characters that spell nothing but bad news. Words stop being words and become letters, which in turn become shapes that mean nothing over the pounding of her heart in her chest. The sound is nearly deafening to her ears. She vaguely registers that Santana is still waiting for an answer, but when she opens her mouth it's only to take in large mouthfuls of air that do nothing to assuage the feeling that she's drowning without any water. It feels like a combination of a sauna and trying to breathe through a damp towel. No matter how wide she opens her mouth there isn't enough air.

Quinn is seconds away from vomiting, passing out, or both when Santana shifts to sit beside her. Her body is warm and it's too much. It's like the inside of an oven and she's sweating and she can't breathe. Quinn shoots to her feet and backs away stumbling into the couch before her back collides with the wall. She doesn't realize she's still gripping the paper until Santana gently pries it from her fingers.

"Quinn." Santana's voice is still sharp but there is an underlying note of distress that isn't helping. Though her voice wavers, her hands are firm when she grasps Quinn's in between them and squeezes.

"Please don't make me have to take you to the hospital. They could probably get me for aiding and abetting even if you die."

Objectively that's an awful thing to say but it snaps her out of it enough to make eye contact with Santana and listen to what she's saying.

"Quinn. Focus. It'll be alright." They stand there against the living room wall until Quinn stops panting in audible rasps and her heart beats in time with the brushes of Santana's fingers. As if sensing she's calmer, Santana shifts to circle her wrist and pulls her back to the couch. She hesitates for a moment but slides her arm across Quinn's shoulders and pulls so Quinn is slightly leaning against her.

"It's OK. Tell me what happened."

Once Quinn has calmed down enough to pull herself upright, Santana immediately shifts out of her personal space. She folds her arms across her chest and waits for Quinn to start talking. Oddly enough, Quinn wishes Santana would at least have held her hand for a little while longer. That thought is uncomfortable so she glances around the room until her eyes fall back on that damn newspaper. The words start trickling out of her, disjointed and hushed starting from the lab to the police station and to Santana's front door. When she's finished, there isn't a sound in the apartment save for a light drizzle against the window.

"Do you believe me?"

Santana stares at her like she's trying to figure something out. Most likely if she needs to have Quinn put in 72 hour lockdown.

"I believe that _you_ believe what you said. I still don't know what that means."

"Santana. I didn't mean to drag you into this."

"Yeah well, too late. I'm sure you don't mean to do a lot of the shit you do. Go in my closet and grab whatever you want and take a shower because you still look like shit and I still need coffee."

When Quinn comes back from the shower in a pair of faded Cheerio sweats and one of the few shirts in Santana's closet that actually covers her cleavage, there is a mug of coffee on the counter. She doesn't see any cream or sugar even though she knows Santana takes copious amounts of both in hers. She's not sure if Santana is still angry about whatever she's angry about or if she just remembered Quinn prefers her coffee black. Either way, she's nowhere to be found. Quinn considers leaving, but there's really nowhere to go. She's standing in the kitchen feeling uncomfortable when her phone pings. It's still in the bottom of her bag along with the vial and the note that Mark gave her. She pulls those out as well. The text is from Santana.

_At work. stay. trust me._

It's only five words, but it's all she has right now. That and a name.

When Santana returns, Quinn's on the couch with her VAIO and a notepad on her lap. She shrugs out of a maroon barista apron. Quinn didn't think Santana had it in her to work in a service industry, but she catches herself before saying it aloud. There's probably a lot Quinn doesn't know about her anymore. Santana leans a hip against the couch and peers over at her notes.

"What are you doing?"

"The last thing Mark told me was to find a Dr. S Ahmed. So I'm trying to narrow it down."

"Never considered just how many Dr. Ahmed's would be based in Manhattan?" The mocking laughter is a preferable to her earlier hostility. Sardonic Santana is much easier to deal with.

"ActualIy, I found her. She's a professor at Columbia specializing in infectious diseases. Mark got his Ph.D there."

"Resourceful as ever Q. How exactly is this going to help with your impending murder trial and conviction?"

"I don't know, but it's better than sitting here and letting you bitch at me all day."

"True. Also orange isn't your color at all. Let's go."

* * *

Dr. Ahmed is an short middle-aged woman with a broad smile more suited to a kindergarten teacher than someone who spends a large amount of time in a lab. Once they'd mention Mark, the smile fades and she becomes all business. Quinn leaves out some of the more gruesome details but apparently news of Dr. Phillips' death has traveled fast enough for her to hear about it. Quinn shows her the note and the vial, hoping for any information that will make the past twenty-four hours make sense. Unfortunately Dr. Ahmed has no answers.

"I honestly have no idea why Mark would send you to me. Unless, it has something to do with this." She holds the vial up to the light for closer scrutiny.

"Tell you what; your description of his erratic behavior does sound like it could be a side effect of a virus. I'll rush this through all the standard tests and see what we find."

Contrary to every police procedural ever, it takes just over an hour to run the tests. Bureaucracy really does complicate everything. Santana has wandered off somewhere, probably to go smoke a cigarette. She does that now. Something else that Quinn didn't know. After a while, Dr. Ahmed rushes in in looking mildly panicked.

"Quinn, where did you get this sample?"

"From Mark. He gave it to me yesterday. Did you find out why everyone was acting strangely? Is it a virus?"

"No. It's much worse. This sample contained both strains of African trypanosomiasis and prions associated with Creutzfeldt–Jakob disease."

"How is that possible?"

"I don't know, but they're reacting with each other in such a way that makes each individual disease look like the common cold. The rate at which the cells are degenerating is alarming. Dr. Ahmed trails off. She looks like she's trying valiantly to stay calm. "If anyone has been exposed to this, it has all the markings of a highly aggressive epidemic. I'm going to need to contact the CDC."

She turns away from Quinn and picks up the phone, presumably to contact the Center for Disease Control. They put her on hold, so Quinn waits awkwardly, wondering how exactly this situation could get any worse.

_"Quinn."_ Santana's harsh whisper breaks her out of her thoughts, she slips out into the hallway. Santana waits for her to clear the door before stalking off, pulling Quinn behind her.

"We need to leave. Now."

"What? Why? We're finally getting answers."

"Yeah and we're also going to get booked. The good doctor told her receptionist to call the police about two minutes ago."

They end up taking the emergency stairs and Santana moves surprisingly fast considering the heels on the boots she's wearing. Running from the police isn't as exciting as Quinn would have expected it to be. There's no chase and no sirens but they do turn the corner just as what Santana points out as an unmarked car pulls in front of the building. The cab ride back is silent except for the driver faintly singing along to the radio up front. It's not until they're standing in her living room that Santana explodes.

"Shit. What the fuck is even with you white chicks always bringing drama into my life?"

"You know, your casual racism stopped being funny in high school."

"You know what else stopped being funny in high school? Me cleaning up your mess."

"Cut it, Santana. You don't even know what you're talking about."

"Well, why don't you enlighten me?" She takes seat on the edge of the table and smiles up at Quinn with a faux earnestness that makes Quinn want to hit her.

"The vial I had was blood. Probably Mark's or Dr. Phillips'. We were working on a kind of vaccine for this disease called African sleeping sickness. It spreads via insect bite and gets really nasty." Santana face twists into a mix of fear and disgust as she lists the symptoms.

"The sample also contained a really virulent strain of Creutzfeldt–Jakob disease. From what Dr. Ahmed told me, its more aggressive than any of the variants we've ever seen-"

"Wait", Santana interupts her. "I've heard of that. Isn't that like Mad Cow?"

"Yes. But the human form is called Creutzfeldt–Jakob disease."

"Whatever." Santana rolls her eyes. "Isn't that the shit that makes cows go on wild rampages?"

Quinn shrugs a little. Santana has a way of sensationalizing facts, but she's not really wrong enough that it's worth correcting her again. She looks a lot calmer than Quinn feels at the moment.

"So you were working on a disease that essentially eats people's brains and that somehow combined with a disease that could turns them into mindless attack cows."

"Well when you put it like that" Quinn rolls her eyes. Santana watches too many science fiction movies.

"So. How's this going to play out?"

"The CDC will take care of it. Then someone should find Mark and I'll just wait until everything is cleared up."

Santana nods. "OK. Well. Guess you'll be hanging around for a while until you get off the America's most wanted list." She points to her room again. "Get changed, we're going out."

"Where?"

"To see an old friend."

* * *

The old friend turns out to be Rachel. She doesn't seem too surprised to see Santana and is unfazed when she brushes past her and into the apartment. She does look taken aback to see Quinn. When Rachel steps back to let her in, it feels a little bit like high school. Rachel has always had the unique ability to make her feel guilty and then angry for feeling guilty. She's picturing all those ignored emails and unused train passes. She feels like she just kicked a puppy. Predictably, she can also feel herself growing defensive as each awkward second passes.

"It's good to see you, Rachel."

Rachel recovers quickly. "It's lovely to see you as well., Quinn. Especially after all these years."

"You know, I just wanted to get back in touch with old friends." Quinn puts on her best cheerleader smile as she says it but Rachel doesn't seem to buy it. Everything about this feels like every awkward conversation she had with Rachel once she stopped being an outright bitch and they became 'sort of' friends. Rachel keeps glancing back and forth between Quinn and Santana like she expects something to happen. The buzz of the blender seems to distract her enough to follow Santana into the kitchen where she's pulling a bottle of tequila out of the freezer.

"You know, it's considered polite to let people know when you can't make scheduled appointments. We were supposed to meet for lunch today."

Santana shrugs and keeps mixing what Quinn thinks are margaritas. "It's Quinn's fault."

"You could have called though."

Santana sets a drink in front of Rachel and heaves out an exaggerated sigh. "Jeez, Rachel. I'm sorry. My treat next time."

The apartment is nice and spacious, with an open design. It's leaps and bounds nicer than the one Rachel shared with Kurt freshman year .The kitchen is in a corner partially isolated by a breakfast bar. The main living area houses a TV and an overstuffed leather couch.

Rachel comes back into the room with a second drink and hands it to Quinn.

"Your arrival was unexpected, but is still cause for celebration. I've been looking for an excuse to let my hair down and Santana's been looking for an excuse to open the tequila she bought for my birthday, so. Cheers!"

Quinn takes the drink. Despite the grave situation, she's unable to quite say no to Rachel's enthusiasm.

"Cheers." she echoes taking a small sip. It's way too strong, but Santana made it so that's to be expected.

* * *

It's weird sitting here making small talk considering everything that has happened in the past 48 hours. Almost as weird as the fact that Santana is close friends with Rachel Berry. It's clear they've hung out enough that Rachel's no longer perpetually offended by the things that come out of Santana's mouth. Tonight however, Santana is mostly silent. Rachel has no problem making up for it though. Filling awkward silence with inane chatter has always been one of her strong suits. Quinn can feel dark eyes on her every few minutes. One of the few times she catches Santana glowering at her, she just purses her lips and knocks back her drink. Quinn has seen enough today to tell Santana isn't actually the bitch she used to be, especially not to Rachel. Which means her bad attitude is being explicitly saved for Quinn.

The handle of tequila is nearly gone by the time Rachel shakily stands and announces that she's going to bed.

"So I guess you two can share the sofa bed?" She looks really tired and is rubbing her eyes as she rises to pull it out.

Santana shrugs and takes the glasses back into the kitchen. Rachel is either ignoring the tension or doesn't notice, but once she's in her room with the door closed, Quinn confronts Santana, stepping directly into her path and raising an eyebrow in challenge. She knows Santana is way to stubborn to back down from a fight.

"You've been acting like a grade A bitch all day. I know I've inconvenienced you, but these were extenuating circumstances."

"They're also not my problem."

"Then what is your damn problem?" Quinn has had about enough of this passive aggressive bullshit. Quinn grabs the collar of Santana's jacket and yanks her to her toes.

"My problem? You show up out of the fucking blue and bring your fucking issues to me. If this shit isn't cleared up I could potentially go jail for a selfish bitch that doesn't give a shit about anyone but herself."

The rancor in Santana's voice shocks Quinn into letting her go. "Where is this even coming from? Please, Santana tell me whatever petty reason you've decided to hate me for today."

Santana deflates a little and she tips her chin downward so Quinn can no longer see her eyes. "I don't hate you."

"Really? Because this is reminding me of the last time we spoke. We both know how well that ended. I don't think Rachel would approve of violence in her apartment. So just spit it out. Why are you acting like this?"

"Because you fucking suck." She pushes Quinn away from her and raises her hands between them. They clench into fists before Santana visibly forces the tension from her body.

"You had just enough time to swoop in and drop your wisdom on me, but not enough time to actually be my friend."

Wait. Is Santana _crying?_

"I hated school, I hated Kentucky, I hated being alone. I didn't have Brittany. _She _had Sam though. I needed someone. I needed _you_."

Santana is pacing now and she's not even be yelling at Quinn anymore, just pouring out all the feelings that have been kept simmering inside.

"You were supposed to be my best friend. But you were too busy screwing some professor to give a shit and then you just disappeared. Well fucking played Quinn. I guess all that shit you said about caring about us was just to get what you wanted."

Quinn doesn't know what to say. She really never knows what to say when Santana reveals that she actually has emotions under that prickly exterior. It's usually enough to just be there but this time Santana is hurt because of _her. _The guilt seeing Rachel generated is nothing compared to the icy lump settling in her stomach. This is _her_ fault and she doesn't know how to make it better.

"Santana, I-"

"No, just stop. It is what it is. You said it yourself. Growing up is about losing things. Let's just go to sleep and hope everything is back to normal tomorrow. I'm going to uh…crash with Rachel."

Santana swipes her forearm across her cheeks as if it isn't going to make her runny mascara worse. She crosses her arms in a way Quinn recognizes. It means _keep away. _With a final glance, Santana leaves her by the couch alone.


	3. Chapter 3

_July 14, 2015_

_If I'm being completely honest with myself, I feel like shit. I'm all over the place, losing things, forgetting what I'm about to say just as I open my mouth. My wife thinks I should stay in the hotel and sleep, but that's not going to happen. I'm here to see her in the city where we met. Where an awkward researcher somehow convinced a vivacious young doctor that since she'd stolen his heart at first glance, she should keep it and him as well. Grace and I went back to Equus Ethiopia. She was a marvelous equestrienne as usual. I managed not to fall off. Barely. She managed not to laugh. Grace leaves the city in a few days to head back to her assignment with MSF and I'll return home to prepare for the new semester, but for now we're together and everything is perfect. _

_-From the personal journal of Dr. Lee Phillips Ph.D._

* * *

Santana is a heavy sleeper. When she's out, she's out and doesn't really notice things that go on around her. Likewise, it always takes her a while to fully wake up. Which is why she doesn't realize she's in someone else's bed until she reaches for the glasses on her nightstand and knocks a stack of books off Rachel's desk. Cringing at the noise, she takes in the hideous sheets and the overabundance of decorative pillows and remembers where she is. She also remembers that she was a bit of a mess the night before.

The exact words escape her, but she recalls the gist of what came out when she exploded at Quinn. Knowing her, she probably cried, which is the absolute worst. She would just love to finally grow out of that. Drunk crying is way too angsty teen melodrama and Santana is _so_ done with that stage of her life. She's not even that mad at Quinn. Not really. When she first got to New York, she had a rough time. She'd managed to singe a few bridges with Brittany and Sam when she first found out they were dating. At that time, she'd been unwilling to confide in _Rachel Berry_ of all people. Instead, she reached out to Quinn who, despite endless high school drama, was the next closest in her trust circle. It's embarrassing to accept exactly how butt-hurt she'd been when Quinn dropped off the face of the earth. Drunk Santana is right; Quinn does kind of suck. But sober Santana is rational and recognizes this isn't something she can legitimately hold a grudge over. Not now, when she's supposedly all well adjusted and shit. It's just really hard not to revert to her default bitch setting when Quinn shows up out of the blue like that. Some adjustments take longer than others.

Groaning, she stands up. Checking the clock, she's at least grateful she won't have to deal with Rachel in addition to the inevitable awkwardness between her and Quinn. Rachel is rarely at home on Saturday mornings. That girl has too much fucking energy, like all the time, and that naturally translates into spinning or yoga or Pilates or some other complicated shit that isn't the simple running and weightlifting Santana forces herself to do. She'd tagged along once, after being brow beaten into it, but it'd had only taken the dudebro instructor "adjusting her stance" one time too many for her to make a scene that embarrassed Rachel so much she never broached the subject of working out together again. Santana counts that as one of her proudest achievements to date.

The bathroom is super close so she sneaks in and immediately jumps into the shower. The water pressure is so much better here than at her place and is at least fifty percent of the reason she stays over so often. The other is fifty is a combination of casual drunkenness and mild paranoia about taking the subway at night. Clearly secondary concerns. The water beats down on her head and clears out the remaining drowsiness. She's going to smell like Rachel's fruity shower gel but whatever, beggars can't be choosers. Santana takes her time, mainly to avoid the impending conversation but also yes, epic water pressure. The water is tepid by the time she gets out.

She is rubbing a towel over her hair when she steps into the living room debating whether she wants to actually touch Rachel's bedazzled blow dryer long enough to do anything with it. Quinn is awake. Her golden hair is still damp and plaited to hang along the side of her neck. Of course she's awake. She's always been a morning person and Rachel would have made sure to play the gracious hostess and see that she knew where everything was.

It's time to bite the bullet.

"Hey" she says, dropping the towel across her shoulders and coming to stand at the foot of the couch.

Santana is worried that Quinn is going to want to have it out over last night but she just looks up and tilts her chin as if to acknowledge Santana's presence before turning back to the news. It's comforting to know some things don't change. Quinn loves to force a fight, but she still has even bigger avoidance issues than Santana.

"Hey."

Quinn is just sitting there watching the weather report like it has the answers to all the universe's problems. It's a little weird. There isn't even something exciting like a hurricane coming. It's just going to be cold and cloudy with a high probability of freezing your ass off. Santana is from Ohio, so she can do cold, but something about New York makes it worse. She thinks it's the wind tunnels from all the skyscrapers.

"Anything exciting?" Santana makes another stab at conversation because it feels like something she should do.

Quinn shakes her head and settles back against the cushions. "No. Everything is normal."

The way she says it sounds frustrated and really odd considering the weather report just ended in favor of a story about a deadly convenience store robbery in the Bronx. If this is normal for Quinn, New Haven must be just as bad as Santana thought. Quinn's not done though.

"I called my roommate. They found Mark. He's dead." She shifts a little and turns to face Santana. "It apparently looks like a suicide and they think he just went crazy and killed Dr. Phillips before…"

Quinn looks really broken up about it and Santana is tempted to ask whether she was banging him too. But that's a too much of a low blow even by her standards. it's also probably rude to the dead guy's memory or something. They've never been exceptionally good at comforting each other, which is probably good. Neither of them likes a big fuss when they're upset. They're more prone to lick their wounds in private. Santana is comfortable with settling a hand between Quinn's shoulder blades and alternating rubs and pats for a few moments.

"I'm sorry."

Quinn leans into her hand for a second or two before pulling away.

"No. I mean. Mark was great and I'm not really surprised considering the way he was acting. But it's odd that this is so open and shut."

"But you're off the hook right? You can go in and make a statement and get back to your regularly scheduled life?" Quinn should be thanking God for small favors. Santana is most definitely grateful because Quinn will be out of her hair in a few hours and she can curl up in her own bed and waste the rest the day in a near comatose state.

Quinn is not so sure though. She shrugs. "I guess. But after all of that, I expected more to happen. This is a bit anticlimactic."

There were times, Thursday and the day before, when she'd been scared out of her mind. The idea this could all be chalked up to an unbalanced lab assistant and an experiment gone wrong seems too easy. Either she can imagine messed up scenarios in her head or she can carry on with her day.

"How about some breakfast?"

They're in a small restaurant, one Santana obviously knows well because she led them straight to it. They both get pancake because after surviving Sue Sylvester, they don't give a damn about diets. Quinn gets extra bacon because she wants to. Santana laughs when she orders it, but gives her a smirk that is only slightly mocking and vaguely approving so Quinn thinks it might be a good sign. The meal is pretty quiet. Food is a pretty good way to shut both of them up. Unlike yesterday, it's not an uncomfortable silence. It's a neutral one, punctuated by the clinking of forks and knives and the background noise of other conversations.

Quinn wants them to talk though. Santana was likely upset about more than just her not keeping in touch, but Quinn hasn't been the best of friends. She casts around for something to say that won't sound dumb. She's got the Fabray charm that makes her an expert at small talk, but inane chatter doesn't work with Santana so she settles on the question she's had since last night.

"So. You and Rachel."

Santana is busy sneering out the window at a woman walking a dog in a sweater, but her head whips around at the sound of Quinn's voice.

"Me and Rachel what?"

"Is that a thing now?"

"Ew no. Where would you even get an idea like that?"

Quinn's not sure if Santana's deflecting, still she's definitely uncomfortable and this just became fun.

"You slept in her bed last night. With her."

"So. I was drunk. And I shared a bed with Brittany all the time."

"Exactly my point."

Santana soon realizes that isn't the convincing argument she thinks it is. She crosses are arms and leans forward

"I also shared a bed with you several times between Cheerios and Glee. And you were supposedly, how do I put it, not that into that. From my extensive observations Quinn, if anyone secretly wants to bone Berry it's you."

Santana emphasizes her point with a wink. She sees what Quinn is trying to do. She hates her a little bit for it, but they're back on comfortable ground. A rousing game of 'who can irritate the other more' is much better than alternating between panic attacks and drunk crying. The way Quinn's face turns red is the funniest shit to happen to her all week. That's not to say Santana hasn't seen Rachel in a new light since moving to New York; she'd be lying if she says she hasn't thought about it. But it's still _Rachel Berry_. That wouldn't be a one-night stand or a friends-with-benefits situation. There weren't just strings attached, it would be like having the whole violin section of an orchestra.

They manage to get through breakfast civilly. Neither will admit how much they missed the low level bitchery allowed in each other's company. Afterward Santana lights up a cigarette while they take the short walk to the subway station.

"You know that'll kill you right?"

"So will that slab of fried pork fat you just inhaled. And?"

Quinn laughs. This is something that has definitely been missing in her life. When the boring, pretentious people at Yale are mean, it's not a convoluted way of expressing affection, it's because they actually dislike you. Quinn reaches out to catch the sleeve of Santana's jacket.

"Look. I'm sorry you felt like I abandoned you. I was busy with school and maintaining my GPA and it wasn't like I actively ignored you, but I do want to keep in touch now."

Santana huffs out a plume of smoke. "You know Q, that was the worst excuse for an apology I've ever heard in my life." She pulls back her arm and hooks it through Quinn's as they cross the street. "But if it means your sorry ass won't go MIA again, I'll take it."

At Grand Central they exchange a hug, a real one and it feels pretty good. They don't get a chance to attempt actually saying goodbye though; because at that moment Quinn remembers that her train pass is in her bag at Santana's. It's funny really, because she always keeps close track of her belongings. They could go all the way to get it, but then it would be really late by the time she got back to New Haven.

"Looks like I'm stuck with you." Santana's words say she's pissed but the hint of a smile around the edges of her mouth say she's joking. She says Quinn can stay over again as long as she's gotten her outrageous snoring under control. She snickers as she says it and really, there's a reason why they always end up slapping each other. Though Quinn is happy she's got her best friend back, there's still a niggling suspicion that she's missing something.

Back at Santana's, she checks the news on her phone. There's nothing on the _New Haven Register_ or _Hartford Courant_ websites aside from of a string of violent and seemingly random crimes in southern Connecticut. Some of them are really out there, but she can't dwell on it because Santana is yelling at her to pay attention to the movie. Santana got home and immediately pulled out her collector's edition of _Child's Play._ Quinn is starting to think she'd rather be arrested for murder than have to deal with that creepy doll. Santana knows she hates scary movies. Her 'friend' is definitely making her watch these as revenge. The way Santana cackles and mouths along all of Chucky's vulgar quips makes her wonder how she ever passed herself off as sane, let alone the coolest girl in school. It's mildly endearing, so when the movie is over and Santana pulls out the rest of the boxed set, she just settles back in for a few more hours of screaming and cringing and a sleepless night full of bad dreams.

Quinn has no idea that the impromptu movie night might be good preparation for the foreseeable future.

* * *

Late that night, she gets an email from the Yale automated safety alert service notifying her of several cases of an as yet unidentified infection. Patients are being kept in isolation at select medical centers. Students are advised against any non-essential travel in the general New Haven-Milford area until the Department of Public Health releases more information. It reads like a standard email, similar to the warnings about the flu, meningitis, bedbugs, and several other ailments that seem endemic to college campuses.

The next morning, Quinn gathers her things and heads back to downtown only to find that all northbound trains are cancelled. She stands amongst other disgruntled passengers trying to figure out what's going on. They can't get any information from the ticket window. The teller just got a call from the main office to stop selling tickets. It's not until she gets a similar answer at the Megabus stop and the Greyhound station that she calls Santana who tells her to just make a weekend of it. That night on the news, buried behind a few random public interest stories is a story of a critically ill patient going missing from a hospital in the Bronx. The attending nurse's description of his irritability, fever, headache, disorientation and loss of motor coordination sound relatively tame. But Quinn knows better.

Hours later, the Commissioner of Health issues a press release that states there is a virus affecting New England and a large part of the New York Metropolitan area. It appears to be transmitted via bodily fluids. An incubation period of approximately twelve is followed by a rapid onset of symptoms. Tests are still being run to determine the full implications, but neurologists confirm massive brain damage and psychotic behavior in advanced stages.

Santana insists on going out for groceries so they can just chill until everything is back under control. They aren't the only ones with that similar idea. Tension is high at the grocery store. The cashiers wear facemasks in addition to gloves and everyone takes special care to stay out of each other's personal space. It's strange to see in Manhattan where continuously jostling others and being jostled in return is part of the daily experience.

Many general practitioners close their offices until there's more information on treatment and prevention. Patients are directed to rapidly filling hospitals, in which the number of false alarms far outnumbers legitimate infections. The travel advisories come next, including recommendations against elective travel and a notification that I-95 will be shut down. The Met and the New York Public Library are closed. The Knicks game is canceled and all professional sporting events are postponed until further notice. There are a lot of complaints from disgruntled fans, but the undercurrent of unease is palpable.

Rachel and Kurt come over just before everyone is told to stay inside. The four of them sit together waiting, valiantly pretending that they aren't freaking out and each failing dramatically in their own way. Quinn paces by the window. Kurt and Santana snipe at each other while Rachel pretty much annoys them both, but it's clear they're glad to be together.

It's not until the mayor stands, sweating in his tailored suit, during rapidly assembled press conference that they know it will definitely get worse before it gets better.

He stares straight into the camera and speaks, "Pursuant to the powers vested in me by the laws of the State of New York and the City of New York –",

The city has been put under a State of Emergency. Quinn takes that as her cue to fill Rachel and Kurt in. They don't believe her at first, but when the mayor essentially confirms what she's saying, Rachel gasps loudly and Kurt goes even paler than usual. Quinn knows more details than are being revealed to the public, but enough of it matches up that everyone in the room knows how serious this is. Quinn looks to where Santana is perched on the couch twisting her fingers together. Neither of them really knows what to do or to say to calm their friends. Everyone remains calm for the most part. Between the three major news affiliates, there's always some kind of update. Not that the updates are good news. They're filled with reports of looting, failing hospitals and gruesome assaults that are multiplying faster than the NYPD and the National Guard are able to manage. But it's still better than nothing.

Until the lights go out.

Manhattan, or as much of it as they can see from Santana's window, goes dark on Monday night. More striking than the darkness is the silence. The subway stopped running with the State of Emergency so there is no distant rattling from underground. Without the gentle vibrations of generators or the hum of refrigerators and microwaves, the city is quiet in a way it shouldn't be.

Santana's neighbor has a battery-powered radio and they all take the calculated risk to stand in the hallway to hear what happened. Somehow a passenger vehicle lost control and crashed in Midtown, damaging a key Con Ed transformer. Large parts of Brooklyn and Manhattan are without power and it's unclear when crews will get out for repairs. After that, the heavy silence really isn't a problem. Everyone in the building is in a rush to get out of town. Apparently, that applies to everyone in the neighborhood. The few who own cars are willing to gives rides and those without vehicles or friends decide it's better to leave than just stay put. Kurt agrees.

"How is all of this even happening?" Quinn sits on the coffee table with her head cradled in her hands. Even though she knows more than anyone, she keeps shaking her head back and forth like she can't believe it.

Santana pipes up, hoping some mundane information will help her keep it together. "It's that damn AC grid system. Manhattan was literally asking for a blackout."

Kurt, Quinn and Rachel stop to look at her so she continues. "For shit to run, a specific voltage needs to be maintained. If it's not, the system crashes."

They are literally gaping at her now and it's irritating. "Whatever, I saw it on Modern Marvels. The History Channel is quality programming."

"Oh my god. We have to get out of here." Kurt is about a second away from hyperventilating.

"And do what? Take the subway downtown?" Santana rolls her eyes at him, but she's having the same knee jerk reaction. She knows better than to act on it though. Panicking gets people killed.

"Kurt's right. We can't just stay here." Rachel's a shade calmer than Kurt but not by much. "At some point we're going to run out of food and since I'm vegetarian I won't be able to properly participate in any cannibalistic death matches when we eventually go insane."

"Rachel, please. You'd be the first to go anyway," before Kurt and Rachel can really get into who would get eaten first, Santana turns to Quinn.

"I think we should stay. But these idiots want to go. Since I generally prefer to count their lame ass ideas as a single opinion, you're the tie breaker."

"I think we should go. Or find a better place. There's no electricity or water here. Eventually we're going to run out of peanut butter and then our biggest issue will be your attitude." Quinn's trying to lighten the mood but it's not working. Probably because her face has never looked more serious. And that's saying a lot for Quinn "I've never met a joke I liked" Fabray.

"We should at least wait until the sun's up and not go running around like these assholes."

"I'm willing to concede that point." Rachel says, peering out of the window like she can actually see anything from the tenth floor in pitch darkness.

* * *

It's just past five am and the four of them are standing in the lobby of Santana's building. She still doesn't really want to leave, but she can't fully articulate exactly why she wants to say. The street outside is empty. There are no parked cars, no bike messengers, no annoying old ladies going for their early morning power walks. It reminds Santana of the emptiness right before a showdown in those old spaghetti westerns that come on AMC every few months. She doesn't know what she was expecting, but minus the usual bustle of Monday morning in Manhattan, nothing really seems out of the ordinary. They make it to Times Square before the eeriness really sinks in. The huge screens, the flashing lights are all completely out. The sun is rising and reflecting off of blank panels that without their advertisements are just looming shadows flanking what used to be a thriving intersection. If any of them notice how they subconsciously speed up their pace, none of them mentions it.

An hour passes before they encounter anyone else.

It looks like a couple, a man and a woman standing on a corner waiting for the bus. But then Santana remembers; no bus is coming. She looks closer and sees the way the man is backed up against the post of the bus stop and the woman is pressing closer to him regardless of his objections. Santana is all for proactive ladies, but this guy looks scared as fuck. She's just opened her mouth to call over to them when three people round the corner. They aren't people randomly wondering like them. They're all moving in the same stilted way with their heads tilted at odd angles. They either don't comprehend or ignore the man when he yells at them to back away.

"Shit", Quinn comes to the same conclusion as Santana and they pull back under the awning and out of sight.

The man is yelling now, fighting against the hands pulling at his clothes and hair. Quinn steps forward like she wants to help. It seems involuntary, almost like the whimper that slips out of her mouth. Santana stops her with an arm thrown across her stomach. The group has fully closed in and the screams have dwindled to low moans as the original woman straddles his chest and bangs his head into the pavement.

"We have to help him."

Santana shakes her head sharply and motions for Rachel to stay quiet. Rachel looks like she's about to argue but Kurt just wraps an arm around her waist and closes his hand over her mouth. He's not the biggest guy, but he's more than strong enough to pin her to him and drags her around the corner when she starts struggling. Quinn's frozen, still staring across the street. Santana pulls her into a tight embrace and backs away before they can be seen.

They continue very slowly, choosing smaller side streets and waiting in nooks before advancing. They stick as close to the building fronts as possible, eyes peeled to spot any potential threats. Rachel's eyes are wet with tears and she doesn't say another word for the rest of the day. Much like when the power went out, her silence is unnerving and serves as another indication of how wrong everything is.

* * *

It's decided that they'll head for the Lincoln Tunnel. None of them drive and all "pedestrian" paths off the island require ferries. The last thing they see of Manhattan is a crashed fire truck. It's still smoking a little from where the front end smashed into a metal pole. There are several bodies near it: some firemen, some civilians. Santana makes an effort not to look too closely at them. The kid in the driver's seat is young. At most a few years older than them. The blood from his temple indicates that he died in the crash. Santana can't decide if he was lucky or not. Something catches her eye and she climbs up into the truck and grabs an axe that's jammed behind the seat. She steps back down and the other three are waiting, eyeing her and the axe cautiously. She looks back at the dead driver and mutters a quick, "Sorry," before catching up.

The entrance to the tunnel is lined with barricades and safety cones. A few police cars are parked in a perimeter but there's an obvious break where the _cordon sanitaire _clearly failed. The lights running along the sides of the tunnel are still on. That's good. But it's still dark as fuck. They need a flashlight. Quinn's phone came with one and Santana is for once grateful that Quinn is the one person she knows who refuses to get an iPhone. She says as much and Kurt bursts out in nervous giggles. Objectively, it _is_ funny but his laughter is too high and it just hangs in the air for a few uncomfortable minutes as they stand peering into the cavernous mouth of the tunnel.


End file.
